The junior kart league meeting was held on Wednesday afternoon, only three days after Evan's second session at the track. School had barely ended when Evan and his dad pulled into the Silver Ridge parking lot. The sky was gray and heavy, threatening rain, but Evan barely noticed. His stomach was flipping with nerves and excitement.
Inside the clubhouse, rows of metal folding chairs faced a whiteboard with the words WELCOME JUNIOR RACERS! written in huge block letters. Kids about Evan's age—some younger, some older—were scattered around the room, most of them wearing karting gloves, team shirts, or jackets with sponsor patches.
Evan suddenly felt underdressed in his plain red hoodie.
His dad must've noticed the way he hesitated. "Hey," he said softly. "You belong here. Helmet or no helmet."
Evan nodded, though he wasn't entirely convinced.
They found seats in the second row. A tall woman with a clipboard stepped to the front of the room and clapped her hands.
"Alright, racers! Let's get started!"
Her voice filled the room with energy. "My name is Coach Ramirez. I run the junior league here at Silver Ridge. Some of you are returning drivers. Some of you are brand new."
Her eyes paused on Evan for a moment—just long enough to make his heart skip.
"This league is competitive," she continued. "We race once a month, we practice twice a week, and we expect dedication, respect, and discipline."
Evan leaned forward in his chair.
"Now," Coach Ramirez said, "let's talk about the most important thing: safety."
As she launched into a list of rules—helmets, gloves, neck braces, flags—Evan tried to focus, but something else kept stealing his attention.
A boy sitting across the aisle.
He was around Evan's age, maybe a year older, with messy blond hair and a concentration frown that looked permanently stuck on his face. His race jacket was bright blue with patches and his name stitched on the chest:
TYLER REEVES
Evan recognized the last name. Reeves. As in Reeves Motorsports.
That Reeves.
Tyler caught Evan staring and raised an eyebrow. Not mean, just… challenging.
Evan quickly looked away.
After the meeting, Coach Ramirez told all the newcomers to head to the track for a basic skill assessment.
Evan's hands shook as he buckled into Kart Twelve again. The sky had darkened, and the first drops of rain tapped against his visor.
"Alright, rookies!" Coach Ramirez shouted. "Show me what you've got!"
The engines roared to life.
Evan pushed forward.
Even with the drizzle, even with his nerves, the moment he hit the track he felt everything click back into place. The rhythm. The focus. The speed threading through him like magic.
But he wasn't the only one.
Other karts were fast—really fast. Two girls with matching helmets weaved through corners like they'd memorized every inch of the track. A small but fierce-looking boy hugged the inside line so tightly that his wheels were practically kissing the curbs.
And then there was Tyler Reeves.
His kart didn't just move—it danced. Smooth, flawless, effortless. Tyler passed Evan on the second lap with a quick glance, as if checking to see whether Evan was going to be a problem. And then he was gone, disappearing into the wet spray like a ghost.
By the fifth lap, the rain was falling harder, turning the track shiny and slick. Karts slid, tires squealed, and more than one rookie spun out into the grass.
But Evan stayed in control.
He slowed when he needed to, turned early, braked late—but not too late. He focused on being smooth, like the sunburned-nose man had taught him.
When the checkered flag waved, Evan rolled into the pit, drenched but grinning.
Coach Ramirez walked over, her clipboard tucked under her arm.
"Well," she said, tapping her pen against her chin. "You've got potential."
Evan felt warmth flood his chest.
"But," she added, "you're raw. You'll need work. A lot of it. Speed. Precision. Strategy."
Evan nodded eagerly. "I'll work as hard as I can."
She smiled. "Good. Because you're starting at the bottom of the ranking list."
Evan blinked. "The… bottom?"
Coach Ramirez pointed toward the track where Tyler Reeves was climbing out of his kart, helmet under his arm. "That kid has been racing for five years. You're not chasing him yet. You're learning. Understand?"
Evan swallowed. "Yes, Coach."
"Good," she said. "Because the first race is in three weeks."
Three. Weeks.
As the rain continued to fall, Evan felt something unexpected building inside him—not disappointment, not fear, but a fierce determination.
He wasn't the fastest.
He wasn't the most experienced.
But he had the spark.
And three weeks was plenty of time for a spark to become a flame.